


Balance

by sonshineandshowers



Series: fin + again [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Spoilers through 1x09
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21735685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: [WIP] Attempting balance had meant providing distance, boundaries he'd gradually established to accommodate rest. How can a stranger help Malcolm seek balance beyond walls to include people?
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Original Female Character(s)
Series: fin + again [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937809
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Balance

Twenty-two missed calls. There wasn't a notification email, text, or call; not even a heads up from his mother. Buzzing, he learned of his father's departure from solitary confinement via now 23 missed calls from the man himself.

Attempting balance had meant providing distance, boundaries he'd gradually established to accommodate rest. He turned off all notifications on his phone save his tight-knit group of close contacts and set out of his apartment for a walk. Wandering in his suit, his shoes clicked against the sidewalk tallying the steps he roamed.

A tangle of blue and green lighting a familiar bar's window drew him in. The artistic fluorescent sign hadn't been there when he and his sister had tried to pop in a few months ago, only to go elsewhere because it was too crowded. Though the bustle reached the street each time the door opened, it wasn't as packed as his last visit.

An outsider looking in, he convinced himself he could have a drink and spend some time around people. It wasn't the quiet comfort of his apartment, yet there was more perceived company than his bird and more warmth than the streets he'd pace until his concerns drooped from his mind to under his eyes. He dipped inside, finding himself a seat at the corner of the bar with view of the room.

After ordering a cocktail, he perused the array of interactions in his eyeline. Friends having celebratory drinks. A couple canoodling. A row of shots waiting to be contested. A few faces tied to the game. Tables of folks he couldn’t quite make out. Glimpses of living happening around him.

Music thrummed through the bar and into his hands. Had seclusion phased his father? Solitary confinement had a pernicious impact on the psyche - how had it affected him? For all of his attempts to get him out of the predicament, he didn't want to talk to him now. Now meant opening more boxes, demolishing his settled line of demarcation, and framing new walls. He sipped his cocktail, his hand rooted on the bar feeling his way back to the present.

"We're having a conversation on cons in the social media age in 10 if you want to come,” a voice came through the background noise bouncing through the bar’s loft.

"Hmm?" Malcolm's head turned to the woman who slid in to sit next to him.

"You're quiet, sitting by yourself. Haven't talked to anyone in the half hour I've been here. If you want some company, come on back to our discussion," she suggested. Her hands moved in time with her words, her open oversized sweater billowing down her sides and brushing her ribbed knee pants with each expression.

His lips curled with the realization he had been profiled. “On?" he asked.

"Cons in the social media age," she repeated. Collected patience drifted and encircled him, seeking to draw him in.

Malcolm sifted his mind for context. "Like stealing Fortnite accounts from kids?"

"Disappearing drop ship businesses," she gave another example.

He caught on. “Fyre Fest."

"So, you want to come?" She smiled, hoping to get him to tag along. New faces around the room meant fresh life for their discussion. They were losing people faster than they were gaining these days, folks headed out of the city for more empathetic pastures.

Only his mind clamoring in the silence waited for him at home. "Okay."

"I'm Cara." She held out her fist to him.

He bumbled bumping the offering. "Bright."

* * *

A small group sat in the round in a private room at the back of the bar. They bounced prompts and thoughts, picking a new one once the old had been exhausted. They had somehow wormed their way to Insta-businesses.

"I'm not sure why people fall for these things. Of course don't buy something from a nonreputable company," a man stated.

Malcolm exchanged, "We like deals because we think we're winning. And the threshold test for reputability is much lower today."

"Who's the watchdog?" a woman added. _A psychiatric hospital. Mr. David. Departments strapped for resources._

"The people," someone else posited.

"What if they're manipulated?" Malcolm suggested. _Twisted by a skilled puppeteer controlling the players and narrative._

"What do you mean?" another voice asked.

Malcolm rephrased, "What if the people aren't really people? Bots, spoofed accounts, fake news..." _Aliases, silent partners, cloaked personalities, hallucinations._

"How can you tell if they're real or not?" Cara asked. Their eyes met, brokering the challenge of how to solve one of the most pervasive problems.

“I don’t know that you can,” Malcolm replied.

“How might we make this possible?” Cara opened up the conversation again. _Tell me._

Malcolm crinkled his hand into a fist, squeezing the encroaching thoughts back into the darkness in his mind. _Balance. Presence. This is fun._

"How?" he spoke, stepping over top of someone else who was talking.

Before he could apologize, they picked up his input and kept going, finding his words feedback rather than disruption. Accustomed to asking forgiveness for his existence, he was surprised when conversation kept flowing around him. Perhaps this was somewhere he might be safe. Perhaps he'd even been welcomed.

* * *

Meeting one new person turned into introductions to nearly a dozen. Most of their names escaped him, yet Cara’s nestled deeper through each sweep of her arms. Exchanging ideas left him buzzed, learning more about a topic he had tangential exposure to and contributing his own background. How long he needed to stay out before trying to sleep disappeared from his mind, leaving the desire to know more about Cara in its place. Who was this conductor, and how could she so effortlessly orchestrate a conversation?

When the group wrapped, Cara smiled at him across the room and walked to his side. “Guess you know more about social media cons than you realized.”

“Yeah.” He smiled and looked to the floor.

"Heya - want to get another drink?" she asked, pointing back to the bar.

"Sure."

They placed their orders and clinked glasses when they came up. "Cheers."

"So how did you learn so much about all that tech?" he asked.

"I make art with technology. Climate protest pieces, bike safety, arts education." Her portfolio revealed the story of her life - every topic she cared about somehow depicted within.

"The displays of how many people have biked past?" he wondered. They passed one each time Adolpho brought him to his mother’s.

Her hands drew again. "But more visual. Like living art pieces." She reached for her phone and pulled up an example.

A wall with curves of cardstock and lights affixed to it looked back at him. He zoomed in, catching patterns gleaming across the surface in shades of blue. “Wind?” he guessed.

“For an exhibit explaining power from windmills.” She had spent a day climbing and observing windmills in preparation. “Flip to see it in motion.”

He flipped back and forth, watching the shades move in the breeze. It took him a moment to realize he was mesmerized and reengage. “This is really cool,” he said, handing her phone back. "Must use a lot of science for that."

"For science." She held her hands apart in mock excitement. Though ecology, sociology, and programming had been learned through different projects, she didn’t identify as an expert in any of them.

"Ah, a geek too."

She shrugged. "Sometimes. Let me guess - professor?" A smile crept into the corner of her mouth as she guessed.

"Nope."

"Lawyer."

"Nope."

"C'mon, you're in a three piece suit." She almost touched his knee, yet curled her fingers. "Finance, investments?"

He smiled at each of her subsequent guesses, enjoying the game. A furrow in her forehead revealed the same determination he had when working a case. “Nope and nope. Want to give up?"

“No, but tell me." A pout and a ghost of her hand at his elbow, again not connecting.

"I work with the police department." The highest level description of his job wasn’t intimidating.

"Oh. Doing?"

"Profiles of suspects." Enough information to be truthful, yet not warrant many additional questions he didn’t want to delve into that evening.

"Cool. So what am I thinking?" A twinkle in her eye lit her broadening smile.

"That the rum pour was a little light and you might need another?” he teased.

She shared a big grin. "Sure."

* * *

Cara’s engagement was captivating. It didn't matter if it was a topic she was deeply interested in or had vague awareness of - she'd listen with the same attentiveness, leaning into each word.

Malcolm couldn’t fathom why she’d approached him. He didn’t know what he’d done to draw her attention, yet it brought him a warmth he'd lacked secluded in his apartment. They shared stories of work and traded moments that brought them joy.

"When work's not calling, what do you do for fun?" Cara asked.

"Exercise. Martial arts. Collect medieval weapons."

"Medieval weapons?" That was an answer she hadn't heard before.

"Well, there's a 17th century katana, a morning star, a bunch of axes...have you ever been axe throwing? It's a lot of fun. They're decorative pieces mostly. Started with an _Arms and Armor_ book I had as a kid,” he babbled.

She smiled at his exuberance and rested her fingers near his. "I can't say I have. Maybe you can show me sometime."

Close, yet no contact again, he closed the gap between their fingertips. “At least 100 days since last biting incident,” he joked, twisting his face and rolling his eyes.

Her voice dipped deeper, speaking from a place of respect. “Careful with contact, y'know? Ensuring it’s welcome. Not wanting to scare you out of your skin."

He set his hand atop hers, working toward convincing her that her touch was okay. “What prompted you to talk to me earlier?”

“You seemed lost - lonely. And I have to keep bringing in new people or it's gonna be me talking to a wall.”

He couldn’t disagree with either assessment. “Why’d you stay?”

“You’re interesting to talk to. Smart. Have these great eyes and smile when it peeks out.”

He shared one of those smiles. “You’re pretty awesome yourself. Thanks to you, this evening turned out nothing like I expected.” He squeezed her hand. “Tell me more about you - what do you enjoy?”

"Drawing. Singing."

He drew with his finger on the back of her hand, whole notes or circles, she wasn’t sure. “Would you sing me something?"

"And I just can't look, it's killing me - and taking control,” she sang and mimed guitar afterward. Eyes closed, she lived The Killers, the unheard music carrying through her body.

Malcolm chuckled. "I didn't think you'd actually do it."

"I'm not shy." She grinned.

"I've noticed.” From meeting him, to facilitating the group, to sticking around after - she was instinctually more outgoing than he was. “Do you play any instruments?”

“Guitar.”

“It’d be nice to hear sometime.” He drew on the back of her hand again.

Every time Cara smiled, he felt himself bend to catch whatever followed. “I’m kind of jelly of your hair. Can I feel it?"

"Sure."

She ran her fingers through his hair near his ear. "So silky." Continuing her exploration, she slid her hand to his cheek, his beard pricking her fingers. Her eyes lingered on his lips, and he closed the distance, kissing the corner of her mouth. At a crash of glasses in the background, he pulled away.

“Flight response is in good working order,” Malcolm joked.

“With your martial arts training, at least it wasn’t fight.”

“No, that’s only in my sleep. Usually,” he added.

“Hmm?”

“’S not important. Skin's still intact," he poked in fun. “That okay?” he checked on his actions.

She locked eyes and the huskiness in her voice returned. ”You could press me against the wall right now and that'd be okay."

"Noted." Flummoxed, his cheeks pinked and he didn’t proceed, yet like the rest of the evening, her forwardness and honesty was appealing.

Her fingers approached his on the bar and touched tip to tip, gaining back a bit of the ground they had lost. “As much as I’d like to continue this, I should probably get going. Early job,” she noted. A straightforward out for him and a reality for her.

As the night had progressed, perceived company had grown to actual company. Disappointment emerged rather than relief. “Can I walk you to your train?” he asked.

“Sure.”

The clicks of his shoes counted their final moments together, warning him he'd soon be alone again. He paused at the corner before the subway stairs, searching for a way to thank her for including him in her evening. Facing her, his hand traced the outside of hers, and when she closed hers around it, he brushed his thumb across her knuckles. “Thanks for tonight. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a while,” he shared.

A smile lit her face. “Text me if you want to hang out sometime.” 

He dug in his pocket for his phone and scurried past the lock screen announcing 35 missed calls to create a new contact. She typed her number in and handed it back, her eyes staying on his. “Hug?” she asked.

He wrapped his arms around her, offering a goodnight into her ear before she disappeared down the stairs to the subway. He watched the stairs long after she left, savoring the lavender that lingered in her wake. Smiling at the glimpse of life within him.

* * *


End file.
